Song of the Sword
After I appeared on TV, a flood of people started showing up at Songi Media. Some offered sponsorship, but most were just... all sorts of shady merchants hawking their wares. Hardly anyone came with good intentions. They were mostly grifters trying to snag a piece of the pie and other no-good types... For that first week, it was enough to give you noise poisoning. Things eventually quieted down as time passed, and life got back to normal...
"Min-ah unni!"
"Yes?"
The front desk employee at Songi Media called out to Yoo Min-ah. I let out a deep sigh beside her, sensing what was coming. Another visitor. There was no other reason for the front desk to come all the way back to the office like this.
"Someone's here to see you."
"Looking for Sora again?"
"Yes..."
"Can't you just tell them Sora isn't here? It's probably another merchant or weirdo anyway."
"Well... this one's a bit different."
"Huh?"
"He's a professor from Seyon University."
"What...? A professor from Seyon University?"
The Republic of Korea was a free democracy, with the constitution declaring no distinctions in status or discrimination among people. But that was a lie. No world existed without social hierarchies. Even capitalist societies had them. On the surface, they pretended class barriers were gone, but look closer, and remnants lingered. The difference? In the old days, your status was set at birth. Now, it depended on how well you studied as an adult and where you went to school.
It was better, sure. Climbing the ladder on your own merits beat being doomed from the cradle. Still, the social gaze on delivery drivers, day laborers, or mid-level corporate drones was worlds apart from that on doctors, lawyers, or professors. The former got dismissed or pitied without a thought; the latter earned respect and envy.
Envy—the emotion farthest from understanding, as some comic put it. In that sense, this visitor seeking me out was like someone flashing a gold-star certificate. Not your typical merchant or freeloader. Being a professor commanded immense societal respect.
I stood from my seat and headed out to greet the professor who'd come all this way. It felt wrong to just send them packing. Plus, I was curious about the face of someone so eager to meet me. How much interest did they have to trek here in person?
I opened the door and stepped into the room where the professor waited. My eyes widened at the sight. Mid-thirties? No, early thirties, and a woman? First shock: a female professor in this era. Second: she looked so young.
By my twenties, female professors were commonplace, numbers exploding. But in these times, they were rare. The 2000s weren't like the Joseon era, oppressing women outright. Still, son preference lingered strong. Female professors and doctors existed, of course. But by the 2010s and 2020s, that faded—son preference flipped to daughter preference. Women's life paths got easier than men's. Men faced brutal marriage markets, mandatory military service tougher than anything women dealt with, and even reverse discrimination.
I bowed politely first.
"Hello, Professor. I'm Lee Sora."
"Come on in, Sora dear."
The Seyon University professor welcomed me warmly, then continued.
"I'm Lee Yeon-ji, a literature professor at Seyon University. I've read your novel, Sora dear."
"Y-yes... thank you..."
Someone had actually read my novel—a bit embarrassing. To a Korean literature professor versed in serious works, it must've seemed like child's play. Genre fiction wasn't bad, but back then, it lagged behind pure literature. Genre novels wouldn't overtake literary ones for a while yet.
Lee Yeon-ji and I chatted for a good while. As we talked, she grew convinced I wasn't your average kid. My speech stood out first—like conversing with an adult. At this level, it felt like chatting with an undergrad in her lecture hall. Normal, coherent dialogue. You'd never get that from first-graders. They were too young to enunciate clearly or articulate thoughts like this.
It solidified her belief that I'd truly written Sunlight Painter. And then my request to drop the formal speech.
"Sora, do you have no interest in pure literature beyond genre novels?"
She almost called genre fiction "riddled with flaws" but caught herself. That would've implied my work was too. Still, I was too talented for genre alone. Korea's pure literature was a sinking ship—no new stars, just dying out. Blame other media. TV and cell phones topped the list.
Literature once held real sway—think school poems or novels. But media eroded interest. Stats showed six out of ten people hadn't read a single book in a year. Not one or two—just zero.
"Pure literature?"
"Yes. Genre isn't bad, but pure lit has its own charm... Enough to make me proud teaching it to students."
"I see...?"
I noted her lukewarm take on genre novels. Probably because she was a Seyon University Korean lit professor. Those circles barely touched genre. They studied pure lit, after all.
"And Sora, have you picked a school yet?"
"No... I'm just a first-grader."
"What about an arts middle school? With your talent, you could go now. If needed, I'll back your application!"
Her eyes gleamed at the prodigy before her, nearly flipping with excitement. She had to steer me from regular middle and high schools into a special-purpose one. You don't waste a honed master sword on slicing tofu.
But I panicked at her words. I had no real talent beyond perfect memory. Skipping to an arts middle school full of monsters would expose me instantly. And I had no plans to grade-skip anyway. First-grade classes ended by noon. Middle or high school meant longer days—more time chained to school.
"I'll... have to think about it."
"It's a waste for someone like you in regular classes—that's why I'm saying this. Skipping elementary means missing playtime with friends, but it's worth it. Don't you find your current lessons boring? They're not at your level."
"Ah..."
She was right. The problems were basic arithmetic any nose-picker could solve. But tackling harder ones via skipping would corner me more.
"I'm sorry. I heard you out, Professor, but I still have too many gaps. It'd be tough."
"Sora..."
Her devastated expression at my refusal tugged at me. I figured I owed her some comfort. A pure lit expert like her—curious how she'd judge my plagiarized novel.
"But Professor... I wrote a new piece. Could you take a look?"
"What? You've written something new?"
"Yes. It's already a book."
I pulled a book from my bag. Its title was Song of the Sword.